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The journey from the Shire had been long, but the specialized carriage and Dwalin’s unwavering guard had kept the "little sprout" safe. As the jagged peaks of the Lonely Mountain finally pierced the clouds, Bilbo felt a flutter in his chest that had nothing to do with the altitude.
He looked at Frodo, who was currently sitting on Fíli’s shoulder, staring wide-eyed at the massive stone gates of Erebor.
"Now remember," Balin whispered, smoothing out Bilbo’s travel-worn coat. "The rest of the Company expects us back, but they don't know you’re with us. And they certainly don't know about the lad."
"It’s a surprise," Kíli winked, adjusting the heavy furs around Frodo’s tiny frame.
The Great Gates groaned open, revealing the golden glow of the entrance hall. Standing there to receive them was the rest of the Company,Bofur, Bifur, Bombur, Oin, Gloin, Nori, Ori, and standing at the center, looking every bit the formidable King Under the Mountain, was Thorin Oakenshield.
"You took your time," Thorin rumbled, his voice echoing off the stone. He looked weary, the weight of the crown visible in the set of his shoulders. "I trust the Shire was as dull as ever?"
"Dull isn't the word I'd use, King," Dwalin said, stepping forward. He was wearing his heaviest traveling cloak, buckled tight. "We brought back... a few things."
Thorin stepped toward his oldest friend, frowning. "You look broader than when you left, Dwalin. Have you been eating Hobbit portions?"
"Something like that," Dwalin grunted. He glanced back at the shadows of the gate where Bilbo, Balin, and the princes were hiding behind a massive pillar.
"I heard a rumor," Dwalin said, his voice dropping to a faux-conspiratorial tone, "that the King was feeling a bit jumpy lately. Too much paperwork, not enough action."
Thorin snorted. "I am not jumpy, Dwalin. I am busy."
"Is that so?" Dwalin reached for the front of his coat. "Because I brought a Mountain-Spook back with me. Watch out, it’s a fierce one."
With a quick flick of his wrists, Dwalin unbuttoned the top of his furs.
For a second, nothing happened. Then, a mop of messy black curls popped out from the collar. Two huge, bright blue eyes blinked at the King. Frodo, encouraged by a nudge from Dwalin’s hand inside the coat, let out a tiny, high-pitched:
"Boo!"
Thorin actually recoiled, his hand flying to the hilt of Orcrist as he stumbled back a step. The rest of the Company gasped, Bofur dropping his hat in shock.
"By the Mahal!" Gloin cried out. "What is that? A forest sprite?"
"It’s a tiny person!" Ori squeaked, leaning in. "Look at the ears!"
Thorin stood frozen, his eyes locked on the creature sitting in Dwalin's coat. Frodo was barely a foot tall, looking like a porcelain doll come to life. The Hobbit toddler, seeing the "sparkly beard" Bilbo had promised, didn't hide. Instead, he reached out a tiny hand toward Thorin’s silver-braided beard.
"Sparkly," Frodo whispered, his voice tiny as a bell.
"He has his father's eye for jewelry, it seems," a familiar, shaking voice called out.
Thorin’s head snapped up. His breath caught in his throat as Bilbo Baggins stepped out from behind the pillar. The Hobbit looked older, thinner, and his eyes were wet with tears, but he was here.
"Bilbo," Thorin breathed, the King’s mask shattering instantly. He moved past Dwalin, ignoring the tiny child for a moment to grab Bilbo’s shoulders as if to ensure he wasn't a ghost. "You came. Why did the letters stop? Why are you... why is there a child?"
"His name is Frodo," Bilbo said, his voice thickening. "And he’s mine now, Thorin. There was no one else. I couldn't leave him."
Dwalin gently lifted Frodo out of his coat and held him out. The warrior’s massive hands acted like a living throne; Frodo sat comfortably in his palm, his tiny hairy feet dangling over the edge of Dwalin’s calloused thumb.
The Company swarmed forward, though they moved with uncharacteristic gentleness, sensing the fragility of the little one.
Thorin stepped closer, his gaze softening into something so tender it made Kíli nudge Fíli in the ribs. He looked at Bilbo, then at the tiny child. He reached out a finger,a finger scarred by a hundred battles,and Frodo immediately wrapped his entire hand around it.
"He is so small," Thorin whispered, a look of fierce, sudden protectiveness crossing his face. "Bilbo... he is a treasure beyond the Arkenstone."
"He’s had a hard time of it," Bilbo said softly, watching as Frodo finally gave Thorin a shy, tentative smile. "He needs a home, Thorin. A real one. Somewhere safe."
Thorin looked around at his kingdom,the stone, the gold, the strength of his kin,and then back at the Hobbit he had loved and lost for two long years. He took Frodo from Dwalin’s hands, cradling the boy against his royal furs with a natural grace that stunned the room.
"Then he is home," Thorin declared, his voice ringing through the hall. "Let it be known: any who look unkindly upon this child, or his father, shall answer to the King. Erebor has a new Prince."
Frodo snuggled into Thorin’s beard, his tiny sigh of contentment echoing in the vast silence of the mountain. For the first time in his short, tragic life, he didn't just feel safe,he felt like he belonged to a mountain that would never let him go.
The Great Hall of Thráin, usually a place of booming echoes and stern council, had fallen into a heavy, stunned silence. The rest of the Company,those who hadn't made the trek to the Shire,stood in a ragged semicircle, their eyes wide and their mouths slightly agape.
Thorin stood at the center of the gaze, looking uncharacteristically still. In the cradle of his massive, fur-clad arms, Frodo looked like a speck of dust against a boulder.
Gloin was the first to break the silence. He adjusted his spectacles, leaning in so close that his fiery beard nearly brushed Frodo’s toes.
"Is he... is he real, Thorin? Or did the Burglar find a clockwork doll in the West?" Gloin reached out a thick finger and gently poked the calf of Frodo’s leg. When the skin gave way and then bounced back, Gloin gasped. "He’s soft! He’s made of nothing but silk and mischief!"
Oin shouldered his brother aside, drawing an ear trumpet from his belt. "Move back, give the lad air! Can he hear? Can he speak? He’s so tiny I fear a loud sneeze might blow him into the rafters!" He leaned down toward the toddler. "Hello! Can you hear me, little Master?"
Frodo flinched at the volume, burying his face in the silver embroidery of Thorin’s tunic.
"Quiet, you old fool," Thorin hissed, his voice a low, protective rumble that vibrated through Frodo’s small frame. "You’ll frighten him."
Dori, Nori, and Ori approached as a unit. Dori was already fussing, his hands fluttering over the hem of Frodo’s Shire-made tunic.
"Look at these stitches," Dori clucked, horrified. "Plain cotton? For a guest of the King? He’ll catch his death in the mountain drafts. I shall have to find the finest weasel-down and spun silver. We must make him a bunting, immediately."
Ori was scribbling furiously in his journal, his eyes darting between Frodo and Thorin. "He fits entirely within the crook of the King’s elbow," he muttered. "Measurements: roughly the size of a large loaf of seed-cake. Weight: approximately three bags of flour."
Nori, meanwhile, was eyeing the tiny, delicate gold buttons on Frodo’s waistcoat. "Smallest things I’ve ever seen," he whispered. "You could lose a dozen of those in a beard and never find ‘em again."
Bofur stepped forward, his hat tassels swinging. He didn't look worried or clinical; he looked absolutely enchanted. He pulled a small, carved wooden bird from his pocket,a toy he’d been idling over.
"Now then, little sprout," Bofur cooed, holding the toy out. "I’m Bofur. Don't mind the rest of them; they’ve lived under a rock too long."
Frodo peeked out from Thorin’s arm. He looked at the toy, then at Bofur’s friendly face. Slowly, one tiny, dimpled hand reached out. The scale was jarring,Frodo’s entire hand couldn't even wrap around the bird’s wing.
Bifur grunted something in Khuzdul, gesturing wildly to his own head. "He says the boy’s hair is like a raven’s nest," Bofur translated with a grin. "And he wants to know if he’s old enough to hold a toy axe."
"He is old enough for tea and a nap," Bilbo interjected, stepping into the circle and looking up at Thorin with a tired but grateful smile. "He’s had a very long journey for someone whose legs are only six inches long."
Bombur had been standing back, looking deeply concerned, until he finally spoke. "How do we feed something so small? Does he eat a whole sausage, or do we have to mince it into crumbs? If he falls into a soup bowl, he’ll drown!"
"He is a Hobbit, Bombur," Thorin said, his grip tightening ever so slightly as Frodo finally drifted off to sleep, his head lolling against Thorin’s chest. "He will likely eat us out of house and home, regardless of his stature."
The Company stood in a huddle, the toughest warriors in Middle-earth reduced to whispering shadows. They watched the rhythmic rise and fall of the tiny boy’s chest, the way his black curls tangled in Thorin’s royal braids, and the way the King Under the Mountain looked,for the first time in years,entirely at peace.
"By the Durins," Gloin whispered, looking at the contrast between Thorin’s scarred, massive hand and the child’s tiny back. "He’s no bigger than a heartbeat."
The huddle of Dwarves in the Great Hall of Thráin was a strange and silent thing. Usually, when the Company gathered, the stone rang with laughter, arguments, and the clatter of tankards. Now, they were a tight, hushed knot of braided beards and heavy furs, their backs turned to the rest of the hall.
The heavy oak doors at the far end of the hall groaned open, and a sharp, commanding stride echoed across the polished floor. Dís, Princess of the Lonely Mountain and sister to the King, marched in, her own silver braids snapping around her shoulders. She was not in a mood for secrets.
"What in Mahal’s name is this?" Dís demanded, her voice cutting through the hushed silence. "I heard my sons returned with Balin and Dwalin, and yet the only welcome I find is this collective mumbling. Thorin! Explain yourself!"
The huddle didn't break, but a collective gasp went through the Company as they realized who had arrived. They shuffled sideways, awkwardly trying to maintain their shield formation, but Thorin stood his ground, slowly turning to face his sister.
"Dís," Thorin said, his voice unusually strained. "Control yourself. We have a... delicate situation."
Dís stopped dead, her eyes narrowing as she looked at her brother. Thorin was holding something. A bundle of fine furs and blue wool.
At first glance, Dís thought it was some new, extravagant piece of jewelry, or perhaps a holy icon. Thorin was cradling it with a reverence she had never seen him show for gold or gemstone. It was so tiny, so perfectly contained within the curve of his massive arm, that it had to be an object, a masterpiece of crafting.
"Since when did you take to carrying dolls, brother?" Dís asked, her tone dry, though her heart had begun to beat faster. The stillness of the object was unnerving. "Did the burden of the crown finally crack your skull?"
She stepped closer, peering at the 'doll.' It had a wild mop of black curls and features so delicate they seemed carved from polished bone. The ears were slightly... elongated? She moved closer still, a frown marring her strong features. "It is exquisite workmanship, I’ll grant you. The details are-"
Suddenly, the doll moved.
The black curls lifted. Two huge, sapphire-blue eyes blinked open, staring directly at Dís. The 'object' sat up in Thorin’s arms, revealing itself as a perfect, living miniature of a person. A tiny mouth opened in a yawn, and then, slowly, the creature lifted one incredibly small hand and gave Dís a solemn, tentative wave.
"Hi," a voice whispered. It was a high, fragile sound, like glass bells.
Dís, Princess of Erebor, warrior of the Iron Hills, went pale as a mountaintop snowdrift. She stumbled back two steps, her hand flying to her throat. She stared, speechless, her mind refusing to categorize what she was seeing. It was a child, but it was impossible. No child was this small. A Dwarven babe was stout and heavy. This... this creature could sleep in a teacup. The shock rooted her to the stone floor.
"By the Durins," she managed, her voice a ghost of its usual command. "What... what is it, Thorin?"
"His name is Frodo," Thorin said, his voice unusually gentle as he adjusted the furs around the toddler. "And he is under the King’s protection."
"Is that the 'Spook' you warned her about?" Bofur whispered loudly from the edge of the huddle.
While Dís stared, still frozen in shock at the tiny child, a movement near Thorin’s legs drew her attention. A small figure stepped out from behind the King, moving to stand beside him with a nervous, yet determined grace.
Dís’s eyes wide widened further. If the toddler was impossible, this new creature was a pure fairytale.
She had heard the stories. Fíli and Kíli had raved about "Bilbo Baggins," the "Burglar of the Shire," the "lucky Hobbit" who had outwitted a dragon. She had imagined him based on their tales,a short, clever, perhaps slightly roundish Dwarf-like creature, maybe a little greener of skin, given his love of gardening.
The reality was entirely different.
The figure was shorter than the shortest Dwarf in the company,shorter than Ori, by a fair amount. He had no beard, his face smooth and slightly lined with exhaustion. A wild, abundant cloud of curly auburn hair, the color of autumn leaves, spilled over his shoulders. His ears, Dís noted, were prominently pointed, peeking out from the curls. He wore a fine waistcoat of blue wool over a loose shirt, but below that, things got even stranger. He wore no boots; his large, leather-soles feet were covered in a thick mat of auburn hair.
But the final shock was the movement behind him. A long, elegant, reddish-brown tail, tipped with a tuft of matching hair, was twitched nervously back and forth, like a lion’s tail sensing danger.
"Sister," Thorin said, gesturing to the newcomer. "This is Master Bilbo Baggins of the Shire."
Bilbo bowed, his face flushed a deep crimson. "A-at your service, Princess Dís. Though I’m not entirely sure what 'service' I can offer a mountain full of warriors, other than perhaps making excellent seed-cake, if the larder has survived."
Dís could only look. She looked at the King, then at the tiny baby wave again from his arms, and finally at the small, curly-haired, tailed creature that her sons spoke of as a legend. The stories, it seemed, had left out the most important details.
"Bilbo Baggins," Dís finally whispered, her shock slowly turning to a profound and utter bewilderment. "You are... not what I expected."
Bilbo manage a nervous smile, his tail giving an extra, sharp twitch. "Yes, well... the Shire does have a tendency toward the unexpected."
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The great stone halls of Erebor were designed to amplify the grandeur of kings,the ring of hammers on anvils, the deep-voiced chants of the guard, and the heavy thrum of industry. They were not, however, designed for a creature whose stride was roughly the length of a medium-sized chisel.
Frodo Baggins was on a mission. He had woken up from his nap in the royal wing to find the "Big Bed" empty. While the room was filled with marvelous things,carved wooden ponies from Bofur, a tiny silver rattle from Gloin, and a soft mithril-threaded blanket from Dori,none of them were the person he wanted most.
He needed his Dada.
With the determination only a three-year-old Hobbit can muster, Frodo had managed to wiggle out of his high-walled cot (a masterpiece of oak and velvet) and navigate the heavy rugs to the door. To his delight, the door had been left slightly ajar, likely by a distracted servant or a hopeful prince.
Now, he was waddling down the main arterial corridor of the mountain. His tiny, bare feet made a soft patter-patter sound that was almost entirely swallowed by the vastness of the stone. He was dressed in a small, forest-green tunic, his dark curls bouncing with every step. Because he was so small,barely reaching a foot in height,the world of the Dwarves was a forest of towering pillars and distant ceilings.
As he approached the intersection leading to the Royal Treasury, two guards stood at attention. They were encased in plate armor, their axes crossed. When they looked down, their stoic expressions shattered.
Frodo stopped, tilting his head back until he was looking at the underside of their chin-guards.
"’Scuse me," Frodo chirped, his voice echoing like a tiny silver bell. "You see Tow-in? Or Dada?"
The guards stared. They had heard whispers of the "Mountain Sprite" the King had brought back from the West, but seeing him was another matter entirely. To a Dwarf, whose own children were born sturdy and thick-limbed, this child looked like he was made of starlight and dandelion fluff.
"Tow-in?" the first guard stammered, his axe trembling. "The... the King? Lord Thorin?"
Frodo nodded emphatically, his curls dancing. "Tow-in. Sparkly-Chin. And Dada. I need Dada."
When the guards remained frozen, overwhelmed by the sheer, improbable tiny-ness of the child, Frodo’s face began to shift. His brow furrowed, and his lower lip began to protrude in a legendary pout. It was a Tookish pout, passed down through generations, capable of making grown Hobbits give up their second breakfast.
"No talk?" Frodo huffed, crossing his tiny arms. "Hmph!"
He didn't wait for an answer. He turned on his heel and continued his trek, his little auburn-tufted heels clicking on the stone. As he walked, he began to sing to keep his courage up, a fragmented version of the walking song Bilbo sang while weeding the garden back in the Shire.
"Yoad goes ever, ever on... down fwom door where it 'gan... far ahead yoad has gone... I must fowwow... if I can!"
The further he got from the royal apartments, the more "civilians" he encountered. A group of washerwomen carrying baskets of linens rounded the corner and nearly stepped on him.
"Mahal’s Mercy!" one cried out, jumping back. "What is it? A stowaway gnome?"
"I not a gnome," Frodo corrected, stopping to look at them. He pointed a small finger toward the direction of the Great Hall. "You see Dee? Or Bal-een?"
The women huddled together, whispering in frantic Khuzdul. They were looking at his ears,pointed and delicate,and his feet, which were far too hairy for a human but far too small for a Dwarf.
"He means Princess Dís," one whispered. "And the Lord Balin."
"Is he... is he allowed to be out?" another asked. "He’s so small! A raven could carry him off!"
Frodo waited. He waited for a helpful direction or perhaps a snack. When all he got were wide-eyed stares and hushed whispers, the pout returned with a vengeance.
"Big Dwarfs is silly," Frodo muttered to himself. He puffed out his chest and kept walking. He had nicknames for all of them now,the ones who had traveled with him. There was Fee and Kee (the golden and dark-haired ones who gave him shoulder rides), O-ee (who smelled of old paper), and Dwaw-leen (the scary one who was actually very soft). But mostly, he just wanted his Dada.
After what felt like miles (but was actually about fifty yards), Frodo reached the massive, brass-bound doors of the Royal Library. He knew this place. It smelled of old parchment and the pipeweed Dada liked to smoke when he thought no one was looking.
He pressed his small hands against the cold stone of the door. It didn't budge. He tried leaning his whole weight against it, his tiny feet slipping on the polished floor.
"DADA!" he yelled, his voice cracking with effort. "DADA, OPEN!"
Inside the library, the conversation stopped abruptly.
Bilbo Baggins sat at a table covered in maps of the Blue Mountains, his long, lion-like tail twitching with anxiety as he discussed trade routes with Thorin, Dwalin, Balin, and Dís. The moment the tiny, muffled shout reached his ears, Bilbo was on his feet.
"Frodo?" Bilbo gasped.
Thorin stood up so quickly his chair scraped harshly against the stone. "How did he get out of the wing? The guard was supposed to be posted!"
Dwalin was already at the door, pulling it open. He looked down and saw a very small, very indignant Hobbit toddler standing there with his hands on his hips.
"Dwaw-leen!" Frodo cheered, his anger vanishing instantly at the sight of a familiar face. He reached up his arms, his fingers wiggling. "Up! Up!"
Dwalin, the most feared warrior in the mountain, didn't hesitate. He reached down and scooped Frodo up, settling the boy into the crook of his massive, tattooed arm. Frodo looked like a figurine sitting on a siege engine.
"You’re a sneaky one, sprout," Dwalin rumbled, his voice softening into a low growl of affection. "Walked all this way on those little paws, did you?"
Dwalin carried Frodo into the room. The sight was a study in contrasts. Thorin stood at the head of the table, his silver-and-blue robes shimmering, his crown catching the light. Beside him was Dís, her dark hair braided with gold filigree. And then there was Bilbo.
Bilbo moved forward, his auburn hair wild and his pointed ears twitching. As he moved, his tufted tail swished behind him, reflecting his relief.
"Dada!" Frodo squealed, lunging out of Dwalin’s arms.
Bilbo caught him, the impact nearly knocking the Hobbit over, though Frodo only weighed about as much as a heavy book. Bilbo tucked the boy against his shoulder, burying his face in the child’s curls.
"Frodo, you frightened me out of my wits," Bilbo murmured. "You aren't supposed to wander the halls alone. The mountain is very big, and you are very, very small."
"I find you," Frodo said proudly, pulling back to look at Bilbo. "I ask the Big Dwarfs. I ask for Tow-in and Dee. They just stare. They broken, Dada."
Dís stepped forward, a rare, genuine smile breaking across her stern face. She reached out and gently tweaked one of Frodo’s pointed ears. "They aren't broken, little one. They’ve just never seen anything like you. In this mountain, we are used to stone and steel. You... you are something else entirely."
Frodo looked at her, then reached out a tiny hand to touch the gold in her braids. "Dee pretty," he decided.
Dís let out a surprised laugh, her eyes shimmering. "And you are a silver-tongued rogue, just like your uncles."
Thorin approached next. He looked at Bilbo, his gaze lingering on the Hobbit’s face with a warmth that spoke of things far deeper than mere friendship. Then, he looked at the child. He reached out a single finger, and Frodo immediately grabbed it, wrapping his entire hand around Thorin’s knuckle.
"He shouldn't have been able to open the latch," Thorin said, though there was no heat in his voice. "He is far too clever for his own good."
"He’s a Baggins," Bilbo said with a weary sort of pride. "And a Took. It’s a dangerous combination."
"He is a Prince of Erebor," Thorin corrected softly. He looked at Balin, who was watching the scene with a moist-eyed smile. "Bal-een, see to it that the civilian quarters are informed. I will not have my people frightening the lad with their staring. If they wish to see the Prince, they may do so at the mid-summer feast, from a respectful distance."
"I not a Pwin-ce," Frodo said, yawning widely and resting his head back on Bilbo’s shoulder. "I Frodo. And I hungry, Dada. Want honey-cake."
"Of course you do," Bilbo sighed, kissing the top of the boy's head. "The mountain might change a lot of things, but it certainly hasn't changed a Hobbit's appetite."
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The kitchens of Erebor were a marvel of dwarven engineering,massive rotisseries turned by waterwheels, hearths the size of small cottages, and tables carved from solid granite. Usually, it was a place of high-pressure culinary art, but today, it had become the world's most fortified nursery.
Bombur sat on a reinforced wooden stool, his massive girth taking up a comfortable corner near the pastry station. On the table in front of him, sitting on a floured board usually reserved for rolling out pie crusts, was Frodo.
The little Hobbit was currently being treated like a deity of hunger.
A dozen sous-chefs and bakers stood in a wide circle, their rolling pins and ladles forgotten. They watched, mesmerized, as Frodo held a piece of honeyed toast that was nearly as big as his torso.
"Look at the way he chews," one baker whispered in awe. "It’s so... methodical. And his ears twitch when he likes the spice! Did you see that? It’s a miracle of nature."
"Is he full yet?" another asked, holding a silver tray of sliced apples. "I have more. I have almond paste. I have tiny dumplings. I made them specifically the size of his thumb!"
Bombur chuckled, his deep belly-laugh rumbling like a distant earthquake. "Easy now, lads. You’ll turn him into a ball if you aren't careful. Although," he patted his own stomach, "there are worse things to be in this life."
Frodo finished his toast, wiped his sticky hands on his tiny green tunic,much to the silent horror of Dori, had he been there,and looked around with wide, bright eyes.
"More?" Frodo asked tentatively.
A cheer went up. Three different Dwarves lunged forward with snacks.
With his belly full, Frodo entered the "babbling phase" of his afternoon. He began to pace the length of the flour board, his tiny hairy feet leaving adorable prints in the white dust.
"Kitchen is loud," Frodo observed, pointing a sticky finger at a bubbling pot. "Hot water make glub-glub sounds. Dada say stay away from hot water. Water tooked my udder Dada. But Tow-in say the Mountain is dry. No rivers in the beds. I like beds. Big beds is bouncy."
He stopped to accept a tiny piece of cheese from a trembling apprentice.
"Fee and Kee showed me the shiny rocks today," Frodo continued, his voice high and melodic. "They go clink-clink. Kee tried to eat one. Fee yelled at him. Silly Dwarfs. You no eat rocks. You eat cakes."
The cooks nodded sagely, hanging on every word as if he were reciting the histories of the Seven Fathers.
"Dee is making me a sweater," he babbled on, sitting down cross-legged. "It has a sheep on it. I like sheep. They go baaaa. Shire has sheep. But Shire is far away. Dada cry about the Shire sometimes, but then he look at me and stop. He say I am his 'bestest thing.' Better than spoons. Lobelia stole the spoons. She is a mean lady. I want to poke her with a fork."
Bombur let out a snort of amusement. "A true warrior in the making, little sprout."
Frodo leaned in close to Bombur, his expression becoming very serious, as if he were about to share a state secret.
"I went to find Tow-in this morning," Frodo whispered, though in the quiet kitchen, it carried to every ear. "He and Dada were in the room with the books. They didn't see me. I'm very sneaky. I'm a Burglar-Hobbit."
He took a deep breath, his little chest puffing out.
"They were squishing faces," Frodo said matter-of-factly. "Dada’s tail was doing the happy-wiggle. Tow-in had his hands in Dada's hair and they were kissing. Like mwah-mwah-mwah. It looked funny because Tow-in has a lot of beard and Dada has none. I think the beard tickled Dada’s nose."
The kitchen went deathly silent.
One chef suddenly became very interested in the ceiling. Another began scrubbing a pot that was already spotless. Bombur coughed loudly, his face turning a shade of red that rivaled a ripe tomato.
In Erebor, the courtship of a King was a matter of grave dignity and tradition. To have it described as "face-squishing" by a toddler was a breach of protocol that no one was prepared to handle.
"Anyway," Frodo said, completely oblivious to the sudden tension as he reached for a strawberry. "I want to go for a ride on Dwaw-leen's head now. He’s tall. I can see the whole world from there."
"Right!" Bombur said, standing up with surprising agility. "A head-ride. Excellent idea. Let’s go find the big grump, shall we? Before you tell us anything else about the King’s... library habits."
As Bombur scooped the tiny boy up and headed for the door, the kitchen erupted into a flurry of frantic activity. No one spoke a word of what they had just heard. If the King and the Hobbit were "squishing faces," that was between them and the stone.
But as Frodo’s "Yoad goes ever on" song faded down the hallway, every Dwarf in that kitchen had a secret, knowing grin tucked into their beard.
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The Great Chamber of Records was thick with the kind of tension that only centuries of grudges and a mountain of gold could produce. Around the massive obsidian table sat the leaders of the three kingdoms.
Thorin Oakenshield sat at the head, looking every bit the iron-willed King Under the Mountain. To his right, Bard of Dale leaned over a map, his expression weary but practical. To the left sat Thranduil, the Elvenking of Mirkwood, who managed to look both bored and judgmental while sipping wine that was older than the men in the room. Behind him stood Legolas, a silent sentinel with his arms folded.
"The trade routes through the Long Lake must be secured before the first frost," Bard said, his voice echoing. "My people cannot survive the winter on promises of dwarven steel alone."
Thranduil arched a perfectly groomed eyebrow. "And my borders are not a public highway for every merchant who wishes to avoid the forest path. There are... protocols."
Thorin opened his mouth to deliver a stinging retort about elven protocols, but he stopped mid-breath. A strange sound had drifted up from beneath the table.
It was a long, high-pitched, and incredibly sleepy yawn.
The council went deathly silent. Bard blinked. Thranduil froze with his glass halfway to his lips.
"Is the mountain haunted by spirits of the hearth?" Thranduil asked, his voice dripping with suspicion.
Thorin didn't answer. He looked down between his knees. Tucked right under the royal chair, nestled on a pile of discarded velvet cloaks, was a tiny bundle of black curls and mithril-silk. Frodo had clearly followed his "Tow-in" to the meeting and decided the King’s shadow was the perfect place for a nap.
With a sigh that was more fond than frustrated, Thorin reached down. His massive, ring-adorned hands disappeared under the chair and emerged holding a creature so small it looked like an illusion.
Frodo rubbed his eyes, his tiny pointed ears twitching as he blinked at the bright torchlight. He was barely a foot tall, and in the context of the towering Elvenking and the tall Men of Dale, he looked like a figurine brought to life.
"Hullo," Frodo chirped, his voice a tiny bell in the cavernous room.
Bard actually stood up, his chair scraping the floor. "By the stars... what is that? A child? But he’s no larger than a kitten!"
Thranduil’s icy composure didn't just crack; it shattered. He leaned forward, his silver hair spilling over his shoulders, his keen elven eyes wide with genuine shock. "A halfling... but a seedling of one. I have walked this earth for millennia, and I have never seen a thing so... diminished."
"He is not diminished," Thorin rumbled protectively, tucking Frodo against the fur of his mantle. "He is Frodo. And he is a guest of the crown."
"Dada?" Frodo asked, looking around the room
.
"Your Dada is with balin in the archives, little sprout," Thorin whispered.
The meeting, for all intents and purposes, was over. The serious talk of trade and borders vanished as the "scary" leaders of Middle-earth were decimated by a toddler.
Bard, a father of three, moved closer with a look of pure adoration. "He’s beautiful, Thorin. Look at those hands... they’re like tiny petals." He reached out a finger, and when Frodo grabbed it with his whole hand, Bard let out a breathy laugh. "He has a strong grip for such a little slip of a thing."
Even Thranduil seemed mesmerized. He reached into his robes and pulled out a small, shimmering gem,a star-glass that caught the light. He held it out, and Frodo’s eyes went wide.
"Shiny," Frodo whispered.
"It is yours, little one," Thranduil said, his voice softer than Legolas had heard it in decades. "A gift from the Woodland Realm. May it light your way when the shadows grow long."
While the older kings were busy cooing over the boy, Frodo’s attention drifted to the tall, golden-haired figure standing behind Thranduil. Legolas was staring down at him with an expression of utter bewilderment.
"Up!" Frodo commanded, reaching his arms out toward the Prince of Mirkwood. "I want the Tall-Gold-Man!"
Legolas looked at his father, then at Thorin, and finally at the tiny child. Hesitantly, he stepped forward and took Frodo from Thorin’s arms. Because Legolas was an Elf, his movements were fluid and light, and Frodo seemed to delight in the sensation. To Legolas, the child felt like he weighed nothing more than a few feathers.
"You are very high up," Frodo observed, perched on Legolas’s forearm.
"I suppose I am," Legolas replied, a small smile playing on his lips.
"I like your hair," Frodo said. "It's like the sun."
Before Legolas could thank him, Frodo’s tiny hands dove into the Prince’s perfectly braided, pristine golden hair. With a series of enthusiastic tugs and giggles, Frodo began to dismantle the intricate elven braids. He pulled at the strands, weaving his sticky, honey-cake-covered fingers through the silk, creating a chaotic nest of knots and fuzz.
Thranduil looked like he might faint. Legolas’s hair was a matter of royal pride. But when Legolas looked up, his face was bright with laughter.
"It seems I have a new stylist," Legolas joked, walking around the room with Frodo perched on his shoulder like a tiny king.
Frodo patted Legolas’s head, leaving a smudge of strawberry jam on the Prince’s forehead. "Now you look messy. Like me!"
By the time the meeting actually concluded, the treaties were signed with surprising ease. It was hard to argue over taxes when a tiny Hobbit was using the Prince of Mirkwood’s head as a jungle gym and the King Under the Mountain was feeding him bits of dried apple.